


Golf Adventures

by Aierdome



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Crack, Denmark - Freeform, Gen, Golf, Madsen family, Post-expedition, Self-Help Books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aierdome/pseuds/Aierdome
Summary: Having picked a book on golfing during the expedition, Sigrun now ropes Mikkel into trying out the mysterious game, his brothers jumping in, eager to watch the events unfold. Unfortunately, a self-help book is not the best resource for beginner golf players.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisseDeKovats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisseDeKovats/gifts).



> It's... probably not as funny as I think it is.

_Become a champion! With this amazing book of tips, you too will master the noble sport of golf in under a month! Satisfaction – or your money back!_

Mikkel rolled his eyes, opening the book and checking the first page. _Copyright_ _Copenhagen 2013._ Yeah…

“Something tells me we won’t be getting a refund,” he murmured, flipping the pages to chapter two.

“We won’t be needing one!”, Sigrun called out to him, eager as ever. He looked up, doubtful. They were standing by the back wall of his family home, on a small hill overlooking the farmlands outside Rønne. The patchwork of golden fields and green pastures dotted with black-and-white silhouettes of cows was spread before them, serene beneath the midmorning sun, unaware that it has become the ‘golf course’.

It was Sigrun who’d insisted that the one useless book they’d found in their initial expedition be put to some use. In Mikkel’s opinion, they should simply sell it to some collector in the city, but it seemed that the phrase ‘become a champion’ held some allure for the Norwegian, as she demanded testing golf out. As bad luck would have it, Michel was in town at the time and he proposed that Sigrun could come to the Madsen family farm to try the game out in what he dubbed ‘safer environment’.

She was now holding the ‘golf club’ – a wooden stick with a flat stone tied to it tightly with a string. The ball, a metal sphere Michael procured from who-knew-where, lay at her feet.

“Alright, read it!”, she told Mikkel. “What next?”

He rolled his eyes and glared at Michael, who was leaning on the wall with a barely-concealed grin, then turned to the book. He brought it closer to his eyes, trying to decipher the sketch at the bottom of the page.

“ _Chapter three: it’s all about position._ Alright, there’s a picture… you have to lean forward, turn your head towards your target… No, the head has to be lower, like someone’s pressing it down… Keep your hands really close to your body, the… the head of the club next to the ball… Bend your knees a bit, like you’re about to sit down but not quite… Alright, that’s position, now the expression.”

“You think the expression is important?”, Sigrun asked, wincing as she struggled to keep to a pose that made her look ever so slightly unfamiliar with the concept of standing.

“I’m sure it is. Now, it has to be very, very dopey. No, less intelligent. Like it’s the first time you’ve ever been allowed to hold a blunt object.”

“Uhh…”

There were weird suffocating noises coming from Michael’s general direction. Mikkel stifled his own grin and checked the drawing against Sigrun’s position.

“Yes, seems about right. I suppose the dead-eyed look comes with practice. Now, you have to swing the club, and hit the ball with the wide bit. Don’t turn your head!”

“How am I supposed to hit the ball if I can’t see it?”, Sigrun scoffed, then quickly returned her face to the look of utter stupidity. Mikkel had to resist a chuckle, but before he could answer her, she was already swinging.

The club hit the ball with a loud _crack!._ When the dust cleared, Sigrun was holding a broken stick, there was a flurry of splinters all around her, the stone was gone somewhere, and the ball was in the same position as it had been, slowly sinking into the ground.

Mikkel frowned.

“You know, I’m starting to think that using a metal ball and a wooden club was not our most brilliant idea.”

“Oh, well, we’re only at day one!”, Michael said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, though. There are still some eggs in the pantry. I’ll bring a few.”

* * *

 

Their next golf club was made of two pieces of scrap welded together by exasperated Martin, the youngest Madsen, who had also provided Sigrun with a wooden boules ball, glaring at Mikkel and Michael all the while. He seemed to have gotten better at it over the last year. Neither twin cared much, even if Michael seemed quite heartbroken when the ball was procured.

Sigrun resumed the position, assumed the soulless expression and swung the club. It met the ball with a resounding _bang_ , but this time, the swing was a success and the boule went flying. Three pairs of eyes followed its trajectory.

It disappeared somewhere in the fields, followed a cacophony of moos from the startled cows in its path.

Sigrun was the first to speak.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

Mikkel nodded, and Michael cocked his head.

“What’s the point of this game, anyway? Who sends the ball the furthest?”

Sigrun shrugged.

“I don’t know. We’re only at chapter three. Mikkel?”

“Hm.”

He flipped through the book.

“ _Chapter four: To hit the hole_.”

“What hole?”, Michael and Sigrun asked simultaneously.

Mikkel looked up and around.

“Well, there’s one.” He pointed at the nearby foxhole.

“Great!” Sigrun grinned. “So, what does the book say?”

Mikkel returned to the text.

“ _Congratulations! You have just performed your first pitch! Yay! Now it’s time to actually hit your target. Get in the golf cart and ride to where your ball has landed!_ ” He looked up. “We don’t have a golf cart.”

“We have a tractor, though," Michael said. “We could pretend it’s the golf cart thingy.”

Sigrun grinned.

“That’s wonderful!” She started towards the shed, but then hesitated for a second. “So, are we allowed to just plough through the fields to the ball? Your parents might get pretty angry with you.”

Sigrun’s previous day’s meeting with Mrs Madsen had been… eventful, to say the least. Nevertheless, the twins both shrugged.

“It’s the Olsens’ field, not ours.”

“Oh! In this case – to the tractor!”

As they walked after her to the shed, Martin joined them.

“It’s scary how often you two are using this justification,” he murmured to Mikkel. The older man shrugged.

“It’s true, though. Are you perhaps going with us?”

“Yeah. If this is going to end in a catastrophe, I want a front row seat.”

“Good.” Mikkel patted him on the arm. “You have learned the true Madsen way.”

* * *

 

They found the ball a few metres from the Olsen household, stuck among stalks of wheat. Michael drove the tractor around so that the ball would have some space to get into the air, while Martin fidgeted, rubbing his fingers together and casting tentative glances at the windows of the old, pre-Year Zero house.

“There’s no-one there,” Mikkel told him, tapping his fingers on the club. “It’s market day. I assure you the Olsens are all in Rønne.”

“Mhm,” Martin murmured, clearly not calmed in the slightest.

Michael finally killed the engine and turned in his seat to stare. Sigrun leaned on the back wheel.

“Alright, your turn,” she said to Mikkel. He nodded and assumed the position next to the ball, aiming back at his house. Before he could swing the club, he heard Sigrun.

“No, no. More derpy. Dead eyes are the key, remember?”

_You brought this down upon yourself_ , Mikkel reminded himself, trying to assume a slack-jawed expression as his brothers chuckled.

“Wow, you’re really good at it,” Michael said.

“I've seen your face enough many times,” he told him and swung.

He must’ve hit the ball at a wrong angle, because rather than forward, it shot sideways, past his face and into the corner of Olsens’ house. It hit it and bounced towards the tool shed, then away from it, flying into the front door just as it opened and Mette Madsen stepped outside.

Only to be hit straight in the centre of her forehead.

For a heartbeat, everyone froze. Then, like an onrushing tidal wave, Mette’s roar rose through the air.

“ _MIKKEL HENRIK BLOODY MADSEN!_ ”

Mikkel grinned nervously, trying to hide between his own shoulders. Then Michael gunned the tractor engine and before Mette could start running towards them, all four of them jumped aboard and were speeding far, far away at the breakneck pace of twenty kilometres per hour.

As he held onto the tractor’s cabin pillar, Mikkel turned to pale-faced Martin.

“Why was Mette there?!”

“She dating Rolf Olsen!”, he called back, holding onto the chimney for his dear life.

“ _What_? No!”

“Yes!”

“No! She can’t!”

“She’s twenty three, she sure can!”

“But an _Olsen_?!”

Mikkel held on, feeling betrayed, as Michael and Sigrun were laughing their backs off.

* * *

 

Few hours, three boules, uncountable broken windows and dozens of angry townsfolk later, the three Madsens and Sigrun found themselves no closer to the foxhole than they had been. If anything, they were further away; in fact, early afternoon found them by the shore, near the wire fence that marked the beginning of the safety perimeter. Behind it, the waves of the sea lapped against the moss-covered stones. Nearby, a fishing boat was slowly sliding across the calm surface.

Michael had the club, and he was staring at the ball, trying to make his face look as dumb as humanly possible as Sigrun advised him on the proper technique. Mikkel sat in the tractor’s seat, ready to start the engine if they had to get away quickly. Martin stood on the cabin roof, shielding his eyes as he stared inland.

“Can’t see them… pretty sure I can hear Mette’s screams, though.”

“She’s dating an Olsen!”, Mikkel repeated yet another time.

“Yeah, has been since last June. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t. She can't be dating an Olsen!”

“I don’t think you’ll manage to talk her out of it after today.”

Mikkel sighed and shook his head. He heard rattling of metal above him as Martin stepped from foot to foot.

“Hm, I think I can see the pitchforks…”

Mikkel leaned out of the cabin and called out,

“Hurry up! They’re closing in on us.”

“On it, on it…”, Michael murmured, focused. Sigrun grinned.

“Excellent! And now – swing!”

He swung, and hit. Sigrun jumped out of the way as the ball rushed past her, above the fence and towards the water. And then…

 

Out of all possible things, a sea beast emerged from the water and caught the ball in mid-air before sinking back under the sea.

 

Everyone stared, dumbfounded. Even the people on the fishing boat seemed as mystified by this development as the four golfers.

“That was… random,” Martin said at last.

Sigrun pumped her fist.

“Random? It was a sign from gods!”

“Wha-“, Michael started to say, but she cut him off.

“So golf is useful after all! Using all the stuff in this book, we can lure sea beasts to the surface and kill them!” She turned to them. “It’s brilliant! Amazing! Most best!”

Mikkel opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Then closed it, because what was there to be said?

Martin came to his rescue.

“That’s great and all, but I can already hear the mob. I think we should find someplace to hide.”

Indeed, Mikkel too heard the roar of the rushing townsfolk furious at all the broken windows and ruined dinners. The four of them packed into the tractor and it slowly made its way along the shoreline, Sigrun still praising the newfound usefulness of this horrible, accursed sport.


End file.
